


Unforgiven

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Protective John, Sherlock has a low libido, Sherlock's Past, Sherlock's ex is an asshat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's latest case is for his ex boyfriend, the brilliant and handsome Professor Victor Trevor. John is not too happy about that. But things aren't what they seem, an old friend of John's is involved in the case, and John has a few surprises up his sleeve. Also - a proposal!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforgiven

John took a seat at the back of the auditorium next to Sherlock and glanced at the program. They’d arrived at the conference late for the opening, of course, but were here in time for the first keynote speaker. Sherlock hadn’t told him why he’d insisted on their presence at this medical conference on plastic surgery and wound management, although John gathered it related to a client.

“Pay attention to the next speaker, John,” Sherlock murmured in his ear.

John nodded. “Professor Trevor. Is he our client, or a suspect?”

“He’s getting threatening messages,” said Sherlock quietly.

“Hmm.” John scanned the abstract of the keynote speech, about the research into spider silk in the treatment of wounds and major surgery, and the pursuit of a synthetic substitute. Fascinating stuff in which he had a personal interest. He wondered if Sherlock already knew that.

Professor Trevor stepped up to the rostrum and addressed the auditorium with a beautifully modulated speaking voice and many illustrative slides. John scribbled notes out of professional interest, but noted, half way through, that Sherlock was staring at him.

“What?”

“I was right. You are familiar with this work.”

“Yeah. What gave me away?” John smiled.

Sherlock shrugged. “The Professor’s published papers refer to application of his work in military hospitals and the treatment of traumatic wounds. I thought it would be unusual if you weren’t at least aware of the topic. I hadn’t expected you to be quite so _au fait_ with it.”

“Not so much nowadays, but I met a research scientist in Afghanistan, about eight years ago. Dr Percy Trevelyan – he was touring military medical facilities as part of his work in the field of the uses of spider web and synthetics for healing matrices, especially for burns and wounds affecting large areas of skin. His early research was superb and very promising. Perce and I got on well, and his work had a lot of positive implications for trauma treatment. It might have made a difference to my shoulder if the science was further along when I got shot. I might have had less scarring, at least.”

Sherlock, sitting on John’s left, bent his head to ghost his cheek over John’s shoulder. John nosed briefly at Sherlock’s hair as it brushed against his neck and jumper.

“Perce and I kept up a correspondence for a few years, and he sent me some of his articles for feedback before submitting them for publication – looking for the field doctor’s perspective - but I… Well, I dropped off the radar for a long time after I was shot and spent so long in the rehab hospital. Haven’t heard from him in a long while.”

“I didn’t know that you _knew_ Trevelyan,” said Sherlock, sounding genuinely surprised, “Interesting.”

“Why is it interesting?”

“Dr Trevelyan is the one sending the threatening messages.”

“Ridiculous,” John snorted at once, “Perce Trevelyan is one of the gentlest, least aggressive men I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose, let alone _threaten_ anyone.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him and John grimaced, cleared his throat and put his attention back onto the program. “I can’t imagine it,” he said in a calmer tone, “It seems out of character with the man I knew.”

Sherlock left his usual commentary on John’s emotional stance unsaid. He sank down into his chair, chin on his chest, and watched the professor talk on stage. “Close, were you?”

He pretended not to see the quick sideways glance John threw at him, and the small smile that accompanied the look.

“Perce was brilliant and dedicated to reducing the suffering of others,” said John, “But what he didn’t have was money, the funding necessary to pursue his research. He was also very quiet, introspective to the point of painful shyness. The army might have been his best bet, but frankly, he wasn’t aggressive enough in his approaches. His work was first rate but he couldn’t nudge it over the funding line, when he was competing against so many other worthy projects. I did what I could, but I never had any pull with funding, of course, and then I got shot. That put the kybosh on pretty much everything for the foreseeable future, certainly helping Perce pursue a more active line in grant applications, and then I met you and… well, I was busy with my new life. So if you tell me Perce Trevelyan’s been sending threatening letters to this guy, Professor Charisma up there, I’d say he was being very sorely pushed, or you’ve got the wrong Trevelyan.”

Sherlock, without looking at John, allowed himself a small smile. “Professor Charisma. Yes, he always did have a certain presence. Even as a student.”

It was John’s turn to frown, and then he turned back to the program to read the name properly.

Professor Victor Trevor.

Victor.

Well, _fuck._

“Don’t be like that,” Sherlock said, still not looking at John, “I keep telling you, I was never _forced_.”

“There’s more to consent than not being _forced_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m aware. Or. I have become aware. Neither of us were exactly wise, back then, John. We were both young. He was so very bright, and attractive. I fancied I was in love with him. Perhaps I was, though in retrospect, and in comparison, that seems a rather juvenile infatuation. I was drawn to him, certainly, and I think he found me interesting. He was considerate enough at the start.” Sherlock’s hands were steepled under his chin. “In due course I realised he simply thought me inexperienced and nervous. Which I was, but that wasn’t the whole story. I thought he might be right, actually, and I tried to behave… normally. But the more he pushed, the more reluctant I became, and in the end I broke up with him.”

“Still good friends?” said John in a dark tone.

“Well, amicably enough on my part,” said Sherlock, “Victor was rather annoyed, as I recall.”

John said nothing, but Sherlock could hear his teeth grinding. He reached out and took John’s clenched fist, rubbing his thumb across the whitened knuckles. John shot him a simmering look, a complex blend of protectiveness and fury and even…

“You have no earthly reason to be jealous, John,” Sherlock said, irritated.

“I’m not…”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Fine. Fine. Why are we here, with Professor Victor Fucking Charisma as our client? Just wanted to see how he was doing? Catch up on old times?” John sighed and grimaced at the shushing noises coming at them from the next row. “Sorry. I know I’m being unreasonable…”

“I’m embarrassed to confess I find your jealousy gratifying, to a degree,” said Sherlock, “But only a small one. As to why I’m here. The fact that Victor would contact me at all was curious, given how we parted, and the messages themselves were of interest. Extremely odd, in fact, in their lack of aggression and outright threat – you are quite correct in your memory and summation of your old friend - yet Victor is genuinely distressed by them. Distressed enough to call me, although he doesn’t deem them important enough to involve the police. And I will admit to a certain, rather ignoble motive.”

“Really?”

“I wanted him to meet you.”

“You wanted him to meet me?”

“He made it clear, when I broke it off with him, what he thought of me. What he thought of my… prospects. I wished to … prove him wrong.” Sherlock pulled a face and drew his hand back into his own lap.

It was John’s turn to reach out. He placed a hand over Sherlock’s and, with coaxing, laced their fingers together. Sherlock looked at their linked hands resting on his thigh.

“If you want a running mate for ignoble motives,” said John softly, with the slightest smile, “How about me, for wanting to prove him wrong, too, and for wanting to deck him for hurting you in any way whatsoever.”

Sherlock’s mouth dimpled in a smile. “It is utterly ridiculous that I find that so gratifying, as well. Clearly you bring out many of my baser responses. I’m perfectly capable of decking him myself.”

“I know you are. Which is what makes doing it on your behalf so particularly appealing.”

“John Watson, will you marry me?”

“In a hearbeat.”

“I’m serious.”

“Good. So am I.”

They grinned at each other, but then John’s attention shot back to the stage, where Professor Arseface (as John had decided to think of him) was concluding his presentation.

“And if you’ll excuse the vulgarity, as an army doctor I once knew said, ‘Spiders may give me the bollocksing creeps, but if the little bastards can spin medical gold from their arses, I’ll buy them all a pint.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” muttered John.

Sherlock paused in the act of rising in his seat, and watched John alertly.

“I said that all right,” said John, rising as well, “But I said it to Perce Trevelyan.”

They sidled out of the row well ahead of the applauding crowd, which was soon to be off for the lunch break, and made their way to the auditorium green room for Sherlock’s meeting with Professor Trevor.

*

Sherlock slipped into the green room past conference staff while John, naturally, was held up at the door and asked for his credentials. John peered at Sherlock approaching Professor Trevor with narrowed eyes while a woman in a suit and scowl examined his conference pass.

“Professor Trevor is not taking individual questions…” she began.

“I’m not here to ask him any,” John said, working to keep his tone reasonable, “He is consulting my partner,” he nodded at Sherlock, “And me, on a private matter.”

“Doctor…”

“Oh, let him in,” Victor Trevor called out in an amused voice, “I imagine he only wants to take some notes.”

John’s chin jerked up and he marched into the room and up to Trevor. The door closed behind him, leaving him and Sherlock alone in the antechamber with the professor.

Professor Victor Trevor, as tall and as slender as Sherlock, with artfully combed hair, green eyes and a sardonic smile on his irritatingly handsome face, spared John a brief, dismissive glance and returned his attention to Sherlock.

“Have you made any progress, then?” he said, as though he doubted it.

“Certainly,” replied Sherlock in a bored tone, “I believe the matter will be cleared up within a day at the most. Do you have the letters with you?”

“In my briefcase.”

“Would you show them to John?”

Another dismissive glance towards the short man giving him the unfriendly look. “If you like.” Trevor opened his briefcase to retrieve a folder. “You’ve done well, getting a doctor as your _secretary_. GP, didn’t I read in the paper? I suppose he needs to see these for a little colour for that silly blog of his.”

“Not exactly.” Sherlock’s mouth was pursed and he looked at John expectantly.

John took the folder and began to look through the letters. Five of them, scrawled on paper from a tiny notepad, all unsigned. They read, in turn:

_in fire. You will not get away with this._

_Own up before I do it for you._

_I gave you fair warning._

_like a venomous spider_

_At one o’clock, then. Prepare your defence._

“The work you do,” said John conversationally, turning the letters over to examine the paper, the watermarks, the way the edges were cut, the smudges on the back, and to make it look like he knew what he was looking for when he didn’t, when he was just buying time. The notes were certainly in Percy Trevelyan’s handwriting, but John already knew what Victor Trevor had done.

“It’s fascinating. I’ve read numerous articles on it of course. I was part of a medical team in Afghanistan, among other things, and the implications for treatment springing from this research are tremendous.” He glanced up at Trevor and went about enumerating various applications, bandying about specific medical terminology and demonstrating an excellent grasp of the underlying principles. “Of course, there’s the nerve damage I sustained myself during one of those... other things I did in Afghanistan. Bloody nuisance. It’s a shame treatment like this wasn’t available at the time. If I’d been lucky, I might still be pursuing a career in surgery. Still, can’t complain.” He grinned at Professor Trevor, then past him at Sherlock, “I can honestly say I’ve definitely gained more than I lost. I suppose I might be considered extremely lucky after all.”

Trevor was looking faintly more impressed by now, but at these final comments he cast a narrow-eyed look at Sherlock. “I’m delighted your off-sider understands my work, but how does this help me?”

“Oh, it doesn’t,” said Sherlock with a smile, taking the letters from John, “But you don’t really need help.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I need help. I’m being stalked and threatened.”

“Well yes, you are,” drawled Sherlock, “Though what you expect me to do about it is unclear to me.”

“I want you to stop him. Get him arrested, stop him before he actually has a shot at me. You read what he said about a venomous spider…”

“The police could do that for you,” John pointed out, “you hardly needed to call Sherlock for this, if you had evidence.”

Trevor jabbed a finger at the letters. “There’s my evidence.”

“No,” said John, “There are excerpts of several probably perfectly reasonable letters taken out of context in order to defame a great man.”

“Is this what you do now?” Trevor snarled at Sherlock, “Getting your little boyfriend to make accusations on your behalf? I thought you were a _detective_. The papers made such a big noise about how clever you are, especially after all those _fake genius commits suicide_ reports.”

“I know when I’m being _played_ , Victor, and you are not nearly as smart as you think you are, if you think you can fool me with this ridiculous act. What were you hoping for? That I’d use my influence with the Met to have Percy Trevelyan arrested and disgraced? Have him eliminated as a threat?”

“That feeble milksop is no threat to me whatsoever.”

“That’s not what you said when you called _. Please Sherl, only you can help me, Sherl. He’s planning to kill me, Sherl._ ”

“God, this prat really calls you _Sherl_?” John asked, eyebrow raised.

“Despite all requests that he desist,” Sherlock confirmed, with an eyeroll.

John levelled a disgusted look at Victor Trevor. “Seems to be a bit of a thing with you, doing what you like and taking what you want from people, without a thought for them. Being a dick, generally. Does it come naturally, or did you take a course?”

“How dare you…?”

“Tedious, Victor. You’re boring me.” Sherlock flipped the folder closed and leaned over to slip it back into the briefcase. Before Trevor could react, he had dipped his fingers into a compartment and drawn out a small leather-bound case. Trevor snatched at it, but Sherlock darted away.

“Do you have any idea what’s in here, John?”

“Not the foggiest,” admitted John cheerfully, “But it’s making the professor’s blood pressure unhealthily high, so it’s bound to be interesting.”

“Oh, it is.”

“I’m calling security,” Victor Trevor recoiled from them both, “You queer little fucks.”

“Oh, please do,” Sherlock said with a grin, “I would love to hear your explanation on why you have…” he flicked a catch and the case opened, revealing two vials, one filled with liquid, the other with a dark creature, scuttling up and down the glass tube, “A black widow spider and its antivenene.”

John blinked at the case. “That’s… I don’t get it.”

“It’s hard to believe a death threat that’s so obscurely made unless there’s a murder attempt to go with it,” Sherlock pointed out. He held the case out to Victor Trevor. “Which was to be made during the conference, at one p.m., yes? With me as a witness and to uphold the case of threats made against you?”

John looked at the annoyed spider in the glass tube, at the container of liquid, and at Victor Trevor.

“You’re a vile little shit,” he said, then turned to Sherlock. “So Percy’s here then?”

“His name is on the conference register, and I saw him in the auditorium in the sixth row, when we were sitting at the back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Victor was building up a good head of bluster, “But you can explain yourself to…”

“No, Professor Fuckwit,” John rounded on Trevor, “That’s what you’ll be doing. Explaining how you’ve managed to steal Doctor Trevelyan’s work and pass it off as your own.”

“I built on what that idiot started and couldn’t complete.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t need to take credit for his foundational research at the same time,” John said, deadpan, “And you sure as fuck shouldn’t be quoting _me_ to the crowd and pretending _you’re_ the one I said it to.”

“You…”

“You give me the bollocksing creeps, you little fuckturd.”

“A fuckturd with a taste for arson,” Sherlock told him, his eyes alight with amusement at Victor Trevor’s look of apoplexy, “He set fire to Dr Trevelyan’s house, burning down his study, as well as half the living quarters, destroying all of his research. The doctor and his wife only just made it out themselves.”

Sherlock smiled coldly at Victor. “If you’re trying to cover up several crimes, Victor, your very _last_ thought should have been to engage me on the case. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you have some ridiculous notion that you needed to exact some kind of revenge on me for being the one to walk out on you first, and decided that the time was suddenly ripe for it?”

Victor Trevor had lost any sense of self-possession he had ever held. “You dick-dead little queer… You and your pathetic fixation on me, and you couldn’t even get it up most of the time.” He raised a hand and jabbed a vicious finger towards Sherlock’s face, stabbing closer and closer to his eye each time. “You thought you were so smart, you bloody upstart floppy dicked queen, you pathetic…”

His rant was cut off in a gasp as John grabbed and twisted his wrist and fingers in a nasty grip. John held the hand tightly in one hand and probed roughly at it with the fingers of his other.

“All kinds of pressure points on hands, Victor,” he said in a terrifyingly amiable voice, “Nerve endings, delicate bones. I could break bones here,” he pushed, making Trevor’s breath hitch with the pain, “Or here, and you’d recover, sure, but you’d lose the motor skills for fine lab work. That would make life a bit difficult for you, I imagine. Now me, between the nerve damage in my shoulder and the way the bones shattered, and the joint got infected, I don’t have the fine motor skills to pursue a career as a surgeon these days, but that’s all right. I have an excellent life, pursuing other things. Like killers. And arseholes. I certainly have plenty of motor skills left in me to break this hand of yours if you don’t stop sticking it in my fiance’s face.”

“F-f-f…”

“Yeah, I know.” John smiled sunnily at Sherlock. “You’re the first to hear, which is a bit shite, because you don’t deserve to hear good news, you arrogant, lying, thieving, conniving bit of fuckery, but I thought you should know why it is I’m not going to break the finger you kept sticking in Sherlock’s face.”

“Ah…aaaah… let go… p-p…”

“Because I’d be done for assault. And I’d wear that, I would, to make it clear that you do not _ever_ speak to Sherlock like that again. You do not call him names, you do not stick your fucking finger in his beautiful face and you do not try to _use_ him ever again, you dickwad. You’re not worth it, of course. You’re a piece of shit. But Sherlock is. He’s worth it.” He raised his eyes to look at Sherlock, who was watching this demonstration avidly, “But I don’t want to be away from you that long, sweetheart. Assault would be, what, four to six years? I’m not leaving you for that long, honeybee. Not for this twat.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, looking positively besotted, “I don’t want you to be away from me, John. I’ve had quite enough of that.”

John released Victor Trevor’s hand abruptly and the professor, whimpering, tucked the hand close to his body. “You are going to be done for assault, you absurd little thug.”

John crossed his arms and gave Trevor as assessing look. “If you’re going to have me arrested, you’re making much it more appealing to break all your fucking fingers anyway, you know,” he said conversationally.

Trevor blanched and flinched away.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Victor,” said Sherlock patiently, “That won’t be necessary, because in exchange for not charging John with assault, I will not have you arrested for your scheme to frame the doctor for attempted murder.  Your life is going to be difficult enough, since you’ve squandered your considerable intellectual gifts by stealing Dr Trevelyan’s work to pass off as your own.”

“Trevelyan is an idiot. A spineless, feeble-minded idiot, and he was letting that valuable work go to waste with his incapacity to generate funding for it. I’ve taken the whole concept to new levels with my research and my contacts.”

“Whatever you’ve contributed to advances in the field, your scientific reputation will be in tatters after today,” John said.

“I…”

“Those aren’t blackmail letters, or death threats,” Sherlock pointed out waspishly, “They are extracts from longer letters that he wrote to you on his lab notepad. You’ve taken only individual pages that suited your purposes. Many of them begin mid-sentence and for at least one of them, you’ve torn the page off to eliminate a line that didn’t suit your needs. In the full letters, Dr Trevelyan doubtlessly attempted to give you fair warning and an opportunity to come clean on your own. He’s an idiot, I’ll grant you, giving you the option to save face. I don’t imagine he’s so interested in compromise now, however, since the arson. I will certainly do everything in my power to help him to expose you, and since by great good fortune, the _underestimated_ Doctor John Watson, my _exemplary_ fiancé, can verify many of the details, I think it’s unlikely you’ll emerge from this with anything worth keeping. Certainly not your _good name_.”

A knock at the green room door interrupted them.

“And that will be Dr Trevelyan now,” said Sherlock, “Come for his one o’clock appointment.” He left John and Victor alone together while he went to the door, apparently enjoying an opportunity to stride off as though unconcerned.

Victor Trevor, face pinched in rage, glared at John.

“I wish you joy of the dickless bastard. He’s not going to get better you know, even if he tells you he loves you.”

“Of course he’s not getting _better_ ,” snarled John, “There’s nothing wrong with him to get better _from_.”

“Let’s see if you’re still saying that in a year. Unless you’re a frigid freak yourself.”

John had to take a breath to stamp down on the urge to break fingers after all. “It eats you up that much that he was the one to break it off with you, huh? After the way you used him…”

“I didn’t use him. He loved me. He _liked_ it… _ack_!”

John kept two fingers pressed into a nerve in Victor’s throat, and two more against his diaphragm, causing the maximum discomfort that would show the minimum of bruising.

“You know,” said John lightly while digging in his fingers, following Trevor as he tried to get away until the professor was backed up against a wall, “There’s no law that says you have to love someone back just because they love you. You’re not obliged. Any idiot knows that. But do you know what you _don’t_ do when someone loves you more than you love them? You don’t _use_ them just to get what you want. You don’t take advantage of their inexperience and desire for affection and ignore their wellbeing just so you can have a daily _fuck_.”

He dug his fingers in harder as Trevor squirmed. “You’re a user, Victor Fucking Trevor. You’re callous about other people – your patients, your colleagues, and your supposed friends. You were only 23 when you treated Sherlock like an experiment, but you’re 35 now and you’re still doing it. You’re an arsehole.”

He stood back and turned to face Sherlock and Percy Trevelyan, who had come along behind them. Sherlock was beaming at him, and even Trevelyan was looking quietly pleased.

“Mr Holmes has been explaining things to me, John,” he said, “I heard that you’d been shot, of course. I’m so glad to see you’re up and about again, as hale as ever.”

John shook Percy’s hand warmly. “Sorry about falling out of touch,” he said.

“Oh, not at all. I understand. Injuries like yours, and especially to a doctor, radically alter so much of a person’s life. … Is there something wrong, Professor Trevor? Would you like a glass of water?” Doctor Trevelyan’s tone was mild and even rather sweet as he spoke to the unhappily cursing professor, but there was a hint of steel behind those gentle eyes. “

“We’ll just take these,” Sherlock picked up the case containing venomous spider and antivenene, “To help you resist temptation, Victor. God knows you’re very bad at it.”

Victor scowled, but behind his own eyes, the steel had wilted.

There was another knock at the door.

“That will be my wife,” said Dr Trevelyan, “And my solicitor, who have a new, clean copy of the hard drive of my work computer, which was salvaged from the fire and which contains records of all my original research. Including my interview with Doctor John Watson, RAMC, who you quoted in your talk today. And the director of this conference, who is also familiar with my early work. Time we sorted out some things.” He glared meaningfully at Professor Trevor.

 

Trevor slumped and buried his face in his hands, as though hiding his shame was going to help at all.

“My card.” Sherlock flipped one nimbly between his fingers and offered it to Dr Trevelyan, “In case you’re in need of assistance.”

*

Sherlock spent half the taxi ride back to Baker Street leaning against the door on his side, but glancing often towards John, who gazed out his own window. The buffered space between them was charged with energy that was probably inappropriate to expend in the back of a taxi.

To hell with that.

Without comment, Sherlock slid across the seat to press himself thigh to thigh with John. He laced his right hand with John’s left and kissed John’s knuckles.

“When we get to Baker Street,” Sherlock murmured, turning his head to kiss John’s jaw, “I’m going to take off all your clothes and lick your nipples and kiss you all over and play with your cock and stroke you until you come. Possibly twice, if you think you can.”

“Are you now?” The words were a challenge, but John was smiling, and from the way he shifted on the upholstery, Sherlock’s plans already had him hard. He answered his own question by pressing his lips to Sherlock’s and kissing him for a long, sensuous time.

“Yes,” said Sherlock eventually, “And then I’m going to bathe you, and you’re going to bathe me, and you’re going to kiss me all over my back and my arse, because you like that, and I like that, and then you’re going to tell me everything you know about the medicinal use of spider silk while you massage my feet and hands.”

“What an excellent idea.”

“And June, I think.”

“Hmm?” John’s mouth was too occupied with Sherlock’s ear to make vowels.

“For the wedding. We need to give a month’s notice. Registry, I think. Nothing fancy.”

“Hmm,” John agreed, threading his hands into Sherlock’s hair and bringing him down into a kiss that said _Yes, yes, oh god, yes._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Readers of ACD will recognise the name and some of the traits of Dr Percy Trevelyan from the canon story The Resident Patient. My Percy is more diffident than the more arrogant one from that story.
> 
> I first read about the medicinal uses of spider silk a few years ago, in a local paper. I can't find that reference now, but here are some other articles on the research.
> 
> http://www.rcseng.ac.uk/media/docs/spiderweb
> 
> http://www.plosone.org/article/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0021833

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unforgiven [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483497) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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